


Trying for Temperate

by thethrillof



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020), Super Smash Brothers, どうぶつの森 | Animal Crossing Series
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29742768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethrillof/pseuds/thethrillof
Summary: in the immediate aftermath of a drinking contest, sephiroth gets pet by a dog.
Kudos: 18





	Trying for Temperate

Sephiroth is staring at a ceiling.

Light wood grain. Well put-together. Nothing at all like a medical bay.

Which is a ridiculous thought. He is nearly a God, alongside Mother, who already truly is. He has no need for medical assistance, and nothing has ever managed to keep him down. There's nothing to compare to a medical bay, aside from the position of staring upward.

His heart is thundering. Each beat pushes blood through his veins more quickly than the last. It’s too loud, and leaves the ceiling under his watch wobbling uncomfortably.

He refocuses to a noise beneath his pulse. No. Above.

Literally above, there are voices chattering above where he’s lying flat on his back, words dropping from where the others are standing to _thunk_ heavily against his ears. 

“--just tipped over, oh my gosh!”

“Damn, ‘Belle, you weren’t kidding.”

Blurry faces cut into his vision of the ceiling. Further above than they should be, and still too close.

He rolls to his feet, but the room doesn’t cooperate and lurches. Neither does his wing, which slams roughly against something else.

His eyes slide from the wiggling room to track the thing, belatedly leaping out of its reach.

It wouldn’t have hit him. For one, he knocked it away from him too quickly for a reaction.

The more pertinent fact is that it is a stool. Stools are rarely known for their attack prowess.

He looks back up, meeting the gazes of several others that sank back to their previous seating places.

A dog in a smart outfit: Isabelle. Foolishly kind, refusing to stop communicating with him despite Cloud’s repeated requests. Not a threat outside of battle. A woman in pink: Peach, supposed royalty. Rarely a threat outside of battle. Also foolishly kind, offering him tea, also refused to stop speaking to him despite Cloud’s increasing distress. A SOLIDER--no, _soldier_ \--in a bandanna: Snake. Distrustful, but attempted to speak with him as an equal. Somewhat dangerous, equipped with many weapons he does not use in tournament battles.

Sephiroth shifts his stance as his pulse turns into a buzz behind his eyes.

No. Not at all dangerous. When was the last time he found _anyone--?_

None can strike him down but Cloud Strife.

Another being swims to life in front of his eyes, behind the bar the others are resting their elbows on. A…giant bird, adorned with glasses and feathers like a mustache. Shot glasses are under his feathery hands.

Glasses to wear, and glasses to prepare. Sephiroth bites off a chuckle too late. What is _wrong_ with him?

The bird delicately coughs. “…Perhaps you would like to switch…to a cup of coffee.”

Sephiroth aims the Masamune in the direction of his beak. The wooden bar is sliced awkwardly through instead, rattling up his arm, not even a clean cut.

“You might want to sit back down,” Peach says, lips smiling and brow slightly furrowed. The bird, unperturbed, continues cleaning the held glass. “You’ve had quite a bit to drink, honey.”

Drink?

He doesn’t try to stop laughing, this time.

Alcohol had affected him less than drugs, even before he embraced what he _truly is._

Though those drugs that he had been given _were_ specially-made. Nothing used on normal humans worked, blasting through his system within an hour. 

Everything about this World is specially-made, or altered to fit. Even he himself has had to accept handicap to truly to descend to battle. The Hands were stoppable as anything, but fighting them was enough of a distraction to keep Cloud away from him, and Sephiroth would not be stopped. Not by distraction, not by artificially-induced limitation in battle, not by…the shining cluster of glasses against where he had, maybe, just been seated.

If the Hands can limit his ability to fight so…

No. Alcohol had never truly affected him when he tried. SOLIDERS could barely become drunk past their first few doses of Mako, and Sephiroth had never drank before his own first dozen. He had never seen the point of inviting such weakness, physical and mental. Early on, Genesis had said too many biting things before his true self was brought to light, and too many kind ones to be trustworthy. Angeal’s puppy…Zack…had always laughed, more and more, and offered a bottle he promised would take the edge off, but…

_Why is he thinking about this._

“You’re suuuper drunk, sorry!” says a bright voice.

“I am not,” Sephiroth replies flatly.

He’s sitting on the floor, however, without quite remembering when he decided to do that. Nor when he’d chosen to set the Masamune down across his lap, with his hands steadying him instead of resting on his sword’s hilt.

“You are,” the dog says, and her repetition of _“Sorry!”_ is sharply undercut by giggles.

“Really,” Snake says from the edge of his vision. Sephiroth should be looking at him. No, he’s not dangerous, he already told himself that, but then he’s looking still.

“Isabelle is…a lot more tolerant than you thought,” Snake tells him, swirling his own half-empty glass and smirking over it. “Than I did, either, I’ll admit it. But _I’m_ not the ja--uh, not the one who decided to challenge her _head-on.”_

Impossible. Sephiroth is above such things.

Though muddled memories suggest that is exactly how this happened. Peach leading her merry group in the direction of Smashville, telling him, who should not have been listening, who should not have lingered to even cross paths, that the dog could drink anyone under the table. Anyone. Everyone. Even Gods.

(That may have meant Palutena. This may not have been a challenge. He’ll consider these options later.)

“I am _not_ drunk,” Sephiroth insists.

He may be more affected than he thought, however. The voice that burst from his throat was his own, but there should be no variance in his tone, let alone the something so petulant.

He sees Isabelle, who was seated next to him, reach out to do…something. He is too— _impaired_ —to do anything but brace when he realizes where she’s aiming.

Her paw settles on his head.

A bloom of warmth spreads from it. Through his scalp, down his face, suffusing him in the chest and stomach where the…alcohol…had just barely brushed.

“Don’t worry about--oh!”

Sephiroth curls his wing about himself, stopping the _touch_. His eyes flash bright over the edge of his feathers, meeting hers in deep suspicion.

Isabelle’s face morphs from shock back to giggling. “Really, really really! Don’t worry about it. N-nobody’s going to drink and tell! E-even if you do look silly! We’re all silly here!”

And to his bewilderment, all of them raise their glasses after she does, holding a cheer for this _silliness_. Even the bird, with his empty one.

“It’s just for fun! We’re all adults. All the f-fighting is fun, but it’s–it can be a little stressful, too, right? So we just come here and party after, sometimes. It’s all good! It’s all _great!”_

“Even if Brewster’s usually better at cutting us off,” Peach teases in the bird's direction.

“Cut us off? Don’t blame the guy. We all wanted to know who’d win.” Snake waves lazily from his side of the bar.

Though with more forewarning, Sephiroth refuses to lean away when Isabelle reaches out again. This time, she pats a short pattern along his wing before settling back on his head, and he watches the feathers intently to make certain she didn’t put something on them, to make the warmth spill down.

\--Maybe he _is_ somewhat drunk.

At least he’s…comfortable. He is not in danger. He can’t be. He’s the most dangerous being in this room, and beyond, in this and any world.

Somehow, this doesn’t steady him as it often does. In fact, a stab of cold crawls from his chest, so abrupt that he looks down to make sure metal or ice hasn’t pierced it. 

He can bear the most terrible agony, and has, to be reborn and remade in challenge to his eternal enemy, and for Jenova. A chill is mere discomfort, and that is nothing at all. He can tolerate discomfort without thought, most times, but now he isn't. He is capable, but--

He…doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to be cold. He didn’t even notice how cold he was. 

He doesn’t _want_ to. 

Something is telling him he has to be.

But why? Why does he _have_ to be? 

He can stop it. He just _was_ warm.

He may regret this later, but lingering on such will not assist him now.

Sephiroth leans over until his head presses back against Isabelle’s paw--and then softly _thumps_ on the edge of her stool when he overbalances. She just laughs more, gently scooting him until his head is loosely resting against her side. It's half the size of she is, he notices.

And he’s proven swiftly correct. Isabelle's arm settles atop his head. Snake murmurs something about dogs and their loyalty. Peach makes certain to order a glass of something chocolate instead of alcoholic, and Brewster pushes it to Sephiroth, letting him take it once he's somewhat more steady from his place on the floor. 

In time, the others shift their attention away from the massive threat in their midst, continuing on with their soft conversation and rings of laughter.

This works perfectly well to keep him in the strange, unceasing warmth.


End file.
